I Was Here(92)
“It means that I’m sharing with you.” That’s all I’m willing to give him, though in truth, it seems like a lot. Then something I said yesterday when I was trying to convince him to nap in the car comes back to me: We can make up a new code.
I think that’s what we might be doing here.
37
I wake up the next morning in a darkened room, shafts of bright morning sunshine slanting through the blackout shades. The clock reads ten thirty. I passed out around midnight.
Ben is still asleep in the other bed, and he looks sweet, all curled up around one of the pillows. I take a minute to stretch, letting my muscles ease out of the crampedness of twenty-four hours in the car.
“Hey,” Ben calls, his voice sticky with sleep. “What time is it?”
“Ten thirty.”
“Are you ready for today?”
The pizza box is still on the dresser. It seems crazy that last night—in another room that Bradford might recommend, right in his backyard—I was able to forget why I’d come here. But now there’s no forgetting. No denying. I am hot and cold and sick to my stomach. I’m not ready. I’ll never be ready.
“Ready,” I tell him.
He stares at me a long minute. Watches me as he peels off his nicotine patch and puts on another one. “You don’t have to do this,” he says. “I’ll be just as happy if we turn around right now.”
It’s a nice thing to say. But we already aborted one mission. That one didn’t matter. This one does. I shake my head.
He puts on a shirt. “What’s your plan of attack?”
“I thought we’d stake out his house all day, like we did . . .” I don’t finish. Ben gets it.
“But you said he worked at one of the casinos,” Ben replies. “They don’t have regular shifts. He could work the graveyard.”
I hadn’t thought of that. “It might be a long stakeout.”
Ben looks at me for a minute. “What’s the name of the place he works at?”
“The Continental.” We drove past it yesterday. It made me shiver in the afternoon heat to think of being that close to him. If he had such a strong effect on me over the computer, with all those miles and false identities between us, what is he going to do to me in person?
Ben opens the phone book and leafs through the pages.
“What are you doing?” I ask, but before he answers, he’s dialing. When someone answers, he starts talking in a kind of a hick accent: “My buddy Brad Smith works there. I don’t mean to hassle him, but I went and locked myself out of my house and he’s got my spare keys. Can you tell me what time he’s on today so I can come grab ’em?”
There’s a brief pause as he’s put on hold. He looks at me and winks. The voice comes back on the phone. “Oh. Right. Course. You know what time he gets off? I can swing on by and grab my spare set off him.” More silence. “Five? Great. I’ll have to manage till then. Thanks. I will. You too.”
Ben hangs up. “His shift is over at five.”
“Five,” I repeat.
“So assuming he goes straight home, five thirty or six.”
“Aren’t you a good detective.” I smile at him.
Ben doesn’t smile back. He’s all business now. “I say we get to his place early to sniff it out, and then you do your thing.”